The Girl in red Read online

  To the dear friends, both American and French,

  who believed in me

  and were always there,

  with their aid and moral support.

  “How often have I told you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?”

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Sign of the Four

  Well, now I know. I’ll never be able to go back home! But, I’d been happy to go and meet that boy in secret. He made me promise not to tell a soul, coz I only just turned fifteen and he was already past eighteen. He said that the other boys, especially those in my class, if they knew about our date, they’d be spitting mad and sooooo jealous! It was better not to mention it. He said he wanted me all to himself. I’d been glad about that part; coz it must have meant he loved me. Anyway, I loved him and that was for sure! Trouble is, once I got there, things went wrong. Very wrong! So I tried to run away. Only, somebody pushed me. I don’t remember who. Then, like in the movies when they make the picture go into slomo, I felt myself falling, slowly, so slowly. And then I died. Afterwards, the birds came and ate me. And that’s why I can never go home, ever again.

  As she’d been doing every evening after dinner for over a year now, Mademoiselle Marine Thibeau was correcting papers. She was a newly appointed primary school teacher. In fact, according to the recently modified French administrative jargon (supposedly more status enhancing) she was now a “professor of grade schools.” The young woman found this title pompous. Ridiculous, actually. What did the new job description change? Not her salary, unfortunately! Her young nine and ten-year-old students, who in the past had affectionately called her “teacher,” Maîtresse or Mademoiselle, were now meant to address her as “professor.” They hardly ever did and she never corrected them!

  The papers she was grading, for the most part embellished with her comments or annotations in red ink, formed well-organized piles on the dining room table where she worked. The silence in the room was periodically broken by the “hmpffs” “awwws” or “bfffs” which involuntarily escaped her lips. The sight of “pearls” of wisdom, naïve gifts candidly offered by some of her pupils and with which they repeatedly adorned their exercises, prompted her murmurs of surprise or annoyance. Add to their errors or misconceptions the fact that their papers were often stained – with God only knew what candy or jam – the task was sometimes trying on her nerves. She had to remember their age and be patient. However, the memorable “The twelve labours of Herkules were laborius and were also done by Ulisses” was too much!

  — Aw, for God’s sake! I’ll bet you that Leo is doing it on purpose! He knows this is only my second year teaching a class and he’s testing me; he wants to see just how far he can go!

  The comment had been thrown up in the air and was probably not directed at Madame Meunier, but the woman sitting across the table from Marine, took it as an invitation to exchange experiences. She had respected her companion’s silence up until now, concentrating on her own activity, a particularly arduous crossword puzzle.

  — These kids do come up with the strangest things, don’t they? Yesterday, in the catechism class I teach, I heard a good one!

  Marine had picked up a new paper, nodding her head as she read so as to assure her landlady that she was listening. Louise Meunier eagerly continued.

  — I was talking to them about Easter, most particularly about the Resurrection, and I asked them: “In your opinion, what exactly is the Resurrection of Christ?” Well, would you believe it, one of them answered: “It’s the second season, the return of Jesus.”

  — A bit like The Return of the Jedi, murmured her lodger without raising her eyes.

  — The what?

  Marine shook her head, as though to say that the remark was of no importance, and she continued correcting. Suddenly, with a disgruntled cry of dismay, she boldly underlined, in red, a sentence that would have made Homer shudder: “Penelope would stay home and knit sweaters while she waited for Ulysses to return from his business trips.”

  The next day, while observing her pupils strolling around the yard during recess, she had the same thought that generations of teachers had had before her: “Ten year old kids don’t play the same games anymore!” Nowadays, no more hopscotch, blind man’s bluff or tag. Long gone, those old games! You might perhaps still see two or three of the younger boys playing marbles against the wall, or a couple of little girls making elastic bracelets or jumping rope but, generally, the majority of the children gathered in small groups to compare and exchange secrets about who loved whom. Sometimes they discussed the latest “battles” on the TV show The Voice Kids, or they exchanged views on Justin Bieber’s latest outrageous escapades.

  There was, however, one notable exception. One girl seemed to be excluded from these talkative little coteries. As a result, the child wandered around the periphery of the groups, perhaps gleaning a word here and there in the conversations, but was never allowed to participate. Or else she simply leaned against the huge plane tree in the center of the yard, or against the chain-linked fence, and stared with envy at the animated circles of youngsters who sometimes shrieked with laughter at some remark. To start with, most of her classmates had popular and contemporary Christian names such as Louane, Manon, Lola, Lina or Chloé. The girl’s admittedly beautiful but ancient Celtic first name, Gwendolyne, was considered old fashioned and funny. Unfortunately, in these days of styles and rigid uniformity among children and adolescents, her long mass of tightly curled carrotred hair, her very round and freckled face and her chubbiness, added to her out-dated clothes, ostracized her instantly; her peers also laughed at her bulky homemade sweaters and her old scuffed shoes. Discreetly, Marine approached one of the chattiest groups in the schoolyard. Among the laughing friends, she had spotted one of her best students.

  — Tell me, Lisa, why doesn’t Gwendolyn ever take part in your conversations?

  — The witch? Well, we don’t let her. She scares us with stories of her weird dreams.

  Marine shot her a stern look.

  — Witch? I don’t ever again want to hear such a nasty word, Lisa!

  Embarrassed by her slip of the tongue, the youngster blushed in confusion.

  — I’m sorry, Mademoiselle. You’re right it’s not nice. It just came out. Actually, it’s one of the boys who first started calling her that when she told him to be careful coz he was going to fall down the stairs. The next day, he really did fall, so he accused her of putting a spell on him. She said that she’d had a dream and seen the accident coming. She’d only wanted to warn him.

  — Did she ever have other, let’s say, premonitions?

  — Oh, sure! Lots! One day, she came up to Cathy and wanted to hug and kiss her. I knew that was a real bad idea coz Cathy hates her. “Why d’you want to kiss me for, you stupid thing?” Cathy asked her. Gwendolyne said “It’s because I feel so sorry about what’s going to happen to you tomorrow.” Well, the next day, sure enough, Cathy’s new puppy ran out in the road and got hit by a car. So now you see why we avoid her! Like I said, she scares us.

  — All right, Lisa. You can go back and join your friends but, from now on, it’d be nice if you’d all try to include Gwendolyne in your games. Look at her, she’s always alone and she looks so sad.

  The bell rang shortly thereafter. Recess was over and the pupils ran back in noisily. In spite of the request made to Lisa, they ignored Gwendolyne who lagged behind, solitary, as usual. “Without a doubt,” thought the young teacher, “kids can be pretty darn cruel!” She decided she would probe into this business of “scary dreams” and try to find out more about this very lonely and rejected child.

  Marine had arrived in Le Caylar the previous September to start work in the
village school, her first teaching post. Following the advice of the mayor, she had immediately rented a room in Louise Meunier’s house. The arrangement, which was to be temporary until Marine found herself an efficiency apartment, had been tacitly extended for an undetermined period; both parties being perfectly satisfied with the present situation. The landlady’s home was located near the school, and her exuberant flower garden and large veranda with comfortable armchairs provided pleasant havens of peace and quiet after hectic days spent in the classroom. Louise was willing to share her kitchen and living room with the young boarder. The spacious bedroom with its en suite bathroom was well lit, pleasantly furnished and offered a splendid view of le roc Castel, the impressive ruin that dominated the small town. The landlady, a spry widow in her sixties, was discreet, friendly, and in obvious need of company. Marine was single and had no family. Rapidly, in spite of their age difference, bonds of friendship had formed between the two women. Louise had always lived in Le Caylar; she knew every resident, including those living in the outskirts. Understandably, Marine turned to her to begin her informal investigation. That evening, during the dinner they now always shared, she served her friend before putting down the hot casserole and taking her seat.

  — Do you know little Gwendolyne Sezneg, by any chance?

  — The eldest of that Breton couple? Yes, I had the poor child in catechism. Her parents are very strict Catholics and have quite a flock of children!

  — Why do you say “the poor child”?

  — Oh, for several reasons, I suppose. First of all, the girl is strange. Because of that, she’s necessarily a loner who’s never had girlfriends. I always felt sorry for her. And yet she’s a capable little kid. No dimwit, far from it! And yet, the other children always made fun of her, of her plumpness, her kinky red hair and her homemade sweaters. They teased her especially about her bright green eyes. You remember the old nursery rhyme… “Blue eyes go to heaven, black ones go ring God’s bell, brown eyes go to paradise, but green ones go to hell!” I used to catch them at it, muttering that awful saying to her in the back of the class.

  Marine remembered the cruel old adage. She nodded, reached over, and helped herself to the zucchini au gratin she had just concocted. Every other day it was her turn to prepare the evening meal.

  — You also described her as strange. Why is that?

  Louise put down her fork and thought for a moment before answering.

  — Well, among other things that come to mind, let’s say an object went missing during my class, like my notebook or my key ring. That child would go straight to the spot and find it immediately! She’d turn her head and look to see who was arriving, seconds before the doorbell even rang! Once, she announced that so and so was going to become seriously ill. The next day we all learnt that the person in question had suddenly been hospitalized!

  — One of my pupils used the term “scary dreams.”

  — Yes, that’s right! In the beginning, she’d tell us about her strange premonitions and about the voices who sometimes spoke to her. The other kids made such fun of her that from then on she hardly ever spoke another word!

  ***

  For Marine, this second school year was beginning under more favorable auspices than the first. The stress and apprehension she had felt on arriving, the preceding September, had disappeared. She had adapted to the school. She now felt at home in the faculty room and had a good rapport with her fellow professors, enough to approach one of them and to ask her about the poor little “witch.”

  — Tell me, Laura, you had the Sezneg girl in your class last year, didn’t you?

  — Ah, Gwendolyne, the sad and chubby redhead with the kinky hair! Yes, I did. This year I have her brother Pierrick. And, unless I’m mistaken, there are at least three younger brothers and sisters coming along.

  — What did you think of her?

  — She was obviously stressed, full of hang-ups. About being overweight, I imagine. Nice little kid, poor thing, but unpopular. She made good grades for her written work but would never willingly participate in oral exercises. Two or three times during the school year she had dizzy spells. Never quite passed out, but was on the verge. Low blood pressure or sugar count… Who knows? I alerted the principal at the time. I had also noticed that the other pupils teased her a lot. You know how they can be when they target someone! I tried to make her react when they laughed at her. I wanted her to defend herself against certain bullies. She’d just look at me sadly, with those big green eyes of hers, and lower her head without answering. Then the kids laughed even harder. So, I stopped calling on her in class. I figured it was best not to draw attention to the child. Why do you ask? Are you having problems with her?

  — No, I’m not. But I’m afraid that her own problems are escalating. Her classmates now call her “the witch” and they avoid her completely. Supposedly, she has premonitions or “dreams” that scare them.

  Laura frowned and gathered up a few folders.

  — Don’t you think she may have made that up so that they’d leave her alone? Or, maybe, invented these dreams of hers so as to attract attention and become “interesting” in their eyes?

  — Who can tell? All I know is that she is pale and has gray smudges under her eyes. She looks exhausted. Something is distressing her but she doesn’t say anything. I’m going to keep her after class and try to make her talk. Maybe, without other kids around, she’ll have the courage to speak up and tell me what’s wrong.

  The bell rang and signaled that classes were about to begin. The two colleagues parted, grabbed their briefcases and made their way in the packed corridors, accompanied by the habitual raucous but cheerful cacophony.

  From time to time during the morning, Marine discreetly glanced at Gwendolyne. The pupil never raised her hand; as a rule, she’d only answer questions when directly addressed. The teacher noticed that, from her desk, the youngster never left off staring at her as she walked to and fro in front of the board. In the yard at recess, the young woman never approached the little redhead, but she felt those green eyes boring into her back. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that the girl constantly observed her with what seemed to be a pleading look.

  At noon, the bell rang again and the pupils jostled their way out, almost stampeding in an effort to hurriedly reach the cafeteria. The explanation was simple enough. Once a week there were French fries on the menu and today was the blessed day! The last one out, as usual, Gwendolyne ambled dejectedly towards the door. Marine called out to her:

  — Wait a second, Gwen. I’d like to speak with you.

  She leaned under her desk and brought out a small backpack.

  — Look, I’ve brought chips, ham sandwiches, fruit and chocolate milk. We’re going to sit down here together, without your classmates around, and chat a bit while we eat. I’ve an idea that something is bothering you that you’d like to tell me about in private.

  The girl heaved a great sigh of relief and, for the first time ever, a timid smile lit up her freckled face.

  — I’ve been waiting so long for this moment, Maîtresse… though the voice had always said I wasn’t to worry coz you’d eventually show up and help me!

  Marine shuddered and felt goose bumps crop up on her arms. Nevertheless, she retained her composure and invited the youngster to sit down at one of the desks. She, herself, sat next to her and began to unpack the lunch. The little girl, now completely at ease, contemplated her teacher with something that, curiously enough, looked like adoration! Marine smiled and in a soft voice, trembling with emotion, she gently spoke to her pupil.

  — Apparently, you sometimes hear somebody’s voice in your head, right, Gwenny? This same voice told you that the puppy would get run over and that the boy would fall down the stairs, is that it? Did it also tell you where Madame Meunier’s keys had been mislaid?

  Gwendolyne sighed again in relief, as though she had at last reached the end of a long road. With no sign of embarrassment, she answered.


  — Yes. But, it’s a bit more complicated than that. Actually, I have what I call big dreams and little dreams. With the boy and the puppy or even with Madame’s keys, I don’t hear the voice. Those are just things that I know. I have little dreams; I see pictures in my mind. Like, I see where lost objects can be found and what accidents are going to take place. That’s been happening to me since I was little. Mom always told me I get that from my grandmother Bridey.

  The child casually picked up a sandwich, and started to unwrap it, before resuming her explanation. Her teacher took care not to interrupt her.

  — She would help people, my Granny. She’d find what they’d lost. Or she’d warn them about something bad that would happen to them. Just like her, I have these little dreams. But then one day, I started having my big dreams. Those are very different! First of all, when they start, I get sick. I get a bad headache; I feel like throwing up, I get dizzy spells… or worse! Once, I even passed out. That’s how I know the voice is going to speak to me or to show me something. It’s always the same voice. It’s the voice of a very pretty girl with long blond hair. She’s been coming to me for a long time now. She tells me that she’s so tired and that she desperately wants to rest. Then she says that a nice teacher is going to come… you actually! And that you and I will both help her.

  Marine could feel the short hairs rise in the back of her neck. She had never been confronted by psychic phenomena, and immediately thought of a new friend, here in the village, who was very interested in this type of encounter. She couldn’t wait to tell her about this astonishing conversation. Meanwhile, most importantly, she had to reassure the little girl.

  — You say that, long before you, your grandmother also had… visions? Do you think your mother might agree to come here and talk to me about that? I’d also like to know more about your own, uh, dreams. I’d like to help, if I may.

  — Oh, Mom will come and see you all right. But she won’t be able to tell you much more about it. Apparently, I was born with “the veil” over my face, whatever that means, and God is the one who gave me this gift, same as he did for my grandmother. As far as the little dreams go, I’m willing to believe that. But for the big dreams it’s not at all the same. Nobody ever talked to Granny like the big girl talks to me. In fact, I think she’s dead, that pretty girl. I think she was murdered and she wants you and me to find out who killed her!